The invincible miss cust, p.10
The Invincible Miss Cust, page 10
Dorothy glanced at me and shook her head. I sensed that there was more that she wanted to say.
“What is it?” I asked.
She looked down at Nugget, who was finally sitting quietly on her lap.
“Dorothy, tell me.”
There was no reply, so I continued. “I thought assuming a pseudonym might also comfort my family. If I do not use the Cust name, they might be less concerned about others learning of my endeavors, thus causing them the embarrassment they so dread.”
“Edward told me of a man who had his daughter admitted to a mental asylum, claiming symptoms of insanity because she demanded an education and wanted to attend university.”
I recalled Orlando’s accounts of similar incidents. If my brother believed I would manage it, who was I to fear what might lie ahead?
“That will not happen. Neither my mother nor Charles is cruel.”
“I know that,” she said quietly, “but—”
“They might disown me, but they will not risk drawing attention to the family by doing anything drastic. I am sure of that.”
“They will not disown you, Aleen. Surely not? You are family. In time, they will accept your decision. Be proud even.”
I shrugged. “It is what I hope too, but if they cannot bear it and Mama, my brothers, and Ursula turn their backs on me, I have the Widdrington family on my side, including my friends, Viscount and Viscountess Grey of Fallodon, do I not?”
Finally, Dorothy smiled. She reassured me that I could, as ever, count on her support and asked what pseudonym I would use. Who I would be if not Aleen Isabel Cust?
“I thought I would go by A. I. Cust,” I said. “The initials do not give anything away. However, Cust is an unusual name, and the few Custs who exist are almost certainly kin.”
“The advantage of using a variation of your actual name is that you cannot be accused of being deceitful.”
“If it makes life easier and is more acceptable to my mother, I am happy to risk it. I do not think using only my initials will be enough, though. Your suggestion of a variation of Cust is a good one.”
“How about A. I. Custard?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “You are fond of custard, so it should not be difficult to remember.”
We laughed, and then it came to me. “I know! I shall be A. I. Custance. What a perfectly appropriate name for a veterinary student.”
“Custance? Like the jockey?”
“Yes.”
Although Harry Custance had retired from racing by then, he regularly joined the Quorn Hunt in Leicestershire and the Cottesmore Hunt in Rutland, which was where I had had occasion to be introduced to him when I went to a meet at the invitation of one of Major Widdrington’s friends a few years earlier. Mr. Custance had laughed and blushed when I told him how my brothers and I had raced our horses across the fields in Tipperary years before for the honor of being addressed as Harry Custance for the day.
“That is a most excellent idea,” said Dorothy. “What man who knows anything about anything would not be overjoyed to have Miss Custance treat his horses?”
“A. I. Custance, Member of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, please, my lady.”
The first thing I noticed when Major Fitz and I stepped out of the carriage at Forty-one Elm Row in Leith Walk, Edinburgh, was the stone sculpture of a horse standing between a dog and a cow, the latter two lying with their legs folded beneath them and their heads raised. Set on a corbel to the left of the entrance of an expansive, two-story building, the statue marking the New Veterinary College made me think about how nondescript the institution’s equivalent in London was. I thought too about how disinclined the student I had met there had been to provide advice on treating Ruby, as if that was not the duty of a veterinary surgeon. The memory made me even happier to be in Scotland than I was. I imagined how I might one day be approached at college by a stranger looking for advice and how I would not brush them off with an arrogant few words.
The main entrance led into a hallway that was enclosed at the back by a pair of windowed doors. I looked through them onto a series of adjoining buildings that formed the rectangular shape of the college out back. In the center, the open courtyard was paved, save for a strip of gravel that ran down the middle for about fifty yards.
My scrutiny was interrupted by a young man who escorted us into the principal’s office, where he asked us to wait. I walked to the bay window, which offered an even more commanding view of the courtyard. A group of men followed as a bay-and-white Clydesdale was led onto the gravel path. They stood as the horse was walked and then trotted up and down before them. After a few laps, the horse was brought to a halt and a man, presumably a teacher, stepped forward, handed his top hat to someone, and lifted one of the horse’s giant, feathery front hooves. The men gathered around and peered closer. Were they investigating an injury? A new technique of shoeing? The horse looked at me. Although he was too far away for me to be sure, it seemed we made eye contact. I wondered why none of the men seemed to be watching the horse’s face, noting what his eyes might say. They were possibly missing clues about whatever it was they were investigating. I would have suggested it if I could and was impatient to be among them, wishing it was not necessary for me to study at the university for a year.
“Why are you sighing?” asked the major.
I turned from the window. “Now that I am here, I am even more eager to begin. It has taken so long.”
“But you are here, and in just a year you will be here every day.”
“Yes, but still I—”
The door opened and a trim man in a dark suit with neat gray hair and a matching mustache walked in.
“Major Widdrington, it is good to see you again,” he said.
The men shook hands, and when the major introduced me, the principal presented his hand to shake mine. I was pleased to do so but could not help briefly imagining my mother’s displeasure. She believed that if a lady was to relegate herself to shaking a hand, it should only occur if she initiated it. I did not agree. The handshake seemed respectful and professional. It was a social leveler. In this instance, I fantasized it might mean that one day Professor Williams and I would be peers.
“I am sure I do not have to warn you that your presence here will ruffle feathers,” he said, after we had discussed the subjects and standards I would need to achieve at the university before starting at veterinary college.
“No, you do not,” I replied.
“My colleagues and I will do what we can to prepare the other students for your arrival, but I am afraid I cannot guarantee that they will not make it difficult for you as the only woman in the college.”
“I understand,” I said. “I expect that I will be accustomed to it after being at the university.”
“Perhaps, but as you know, there have been women there for some years now. Dr. Jex-Blake and her peers broke the ground for you there; you will be the first here.” Professor Williams’s eyes glimmered behind his spectacles, and he tugged his waistcoat toward his trousers as he stood up. “The first woman in the empire to train as a veterinary surgeon in fact.”
“I hope I shall be the first of many,” I replied.
“Is there any clarity yet on the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons’ stance on women training for the profession?” asked Major Fitz as we made our way to the door.
Professor Williams shook his head. “The RCVS is not a body that moves unless it is compelled to do so, and even then, it does not embrace change swiftly.”
“But you are confident that it will not take measures to prevent Aleen’s education?”
There was a pause. It was as though the principal was conducting a final assessment of how firm my resolve to become a veterinary surgeon was.
He looked at me and sighed. “Forbearance may be necessary. However, I am hopeful that by the time Miss Cust is enrolled as a student here, things will have changed—not only for the RCVS but for women’s education and vocation at large.”
He gave a small smile. “You indicated in your letters that you did not want to wait until that time, and I assume, because you are here, you are still firm on that. Are you absolutely sure you want to go ahead with your training with the official sanction from the Royal College still pending?”
“I am,” I replied. “I do not want to wait another day. It has been too long already.”
Major Fitz and I had lunch at the Waverley Hotel before he accompanied me to my lodgings, which I had arranged with the help of one of Lady Widdrington’s Scottish friends. She was aware of how far Orlando’s bequest would have to stretch to cover my student years. Even so, I was unprepared for what that really meant.
I had calculated that I would have to get by on six shillings and sixpence a week while I studied. What I only realized when I saw it was that that would mean living in a modest terrace house with a privy in the backyard. The only consolation was that the house was within walking distance from both the university and the college—essential since, for the first time in my life, I had neither a carriage nor a horse.
My landlady, the widow Mrs. Logan, opened the door almost immediately when I knocked. She filled the doorway sideways but had to raise her head to look at me.
“Aye, Miss Cust, I take it?” she said in a strong, no-nonsense voice.
“Mrs. Logan? I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She nodded to the major, who tipped his hat from where he waited alongside the carriage.
The attic room, with its low ceiling and wrought-iron bed, chair, desk, and cupboard, was smaller than the pantry at Newton Hall. A single window looked out onto a gray wall across the street. I glanced around for a fireplace. There was none.
“It’s a typical student room,” said Mrs. Logan from the doorway behind me. The chamber was too small to accommodate us both.
“Yes. Thank you,” I replied, summoning a smile.
When I came out, Major Fitz was standing on the same spot, stroking his beard as he was inclined to do when he was anxious.
“Well?” he said, daring to glance up at the narrow house. “Will it do?”
“It will.”
“Good. Good.” He placed his silk top hat on his head. “Remember, Newton Hall is only eighty-five miles away. When your studies allow, you should come home.”
I felt my throat thicken. His invitation was kind, and that he spoke of Newton Hall as if it were home to me meant more than he could imagine.
“Thank you, Major Fitz.”
He touched the brim of his hat and turned to climb into the carriage. As he placed his foot on the stair, he paused and turned back to me.
“Do not delay writing to your mother, Aleen.”
I wrote to her little over a month later.
Dear Mama,
I trust that you, my brothers, and sister are in good health, and that all is well in London and at Leasowe?
You will see from the address above that I presently reside in Edinburgh. I will almost certainly spend most of my time here for the next four years and look forward to receiving correspondence from you at this address until I advise otherwise.
I have, with the assistance of Major and Lady Widdrington, found lodgings, which will suffice while I study toward becoming a veterinary surgeon. At my request, the major accompanied me from Newton Hall to Edinburgh to introduce me to Professor William Williams, who is the principal of the New Veterinary College. I will start my training there next year when I have completed studying the necessary subjects at the University of Edinburgh this year. The course work I am undertaking at the university is similar to that studied by medical students in their first year and includes chemistry, biology, histology, and pathology. The university has been open to women medical students for some years, which means that I am not the only woman in my class.
For so long you have opposed my ambition to become a veterinary surgeon, but now that I am engaged in the training to become one, I hope you will accept my decision. It would mean a great deal to me to have your support. I hope too that you will appreciate my sincere attempts to ensure that my plans do not cause you any shame or discomfort. I am studying as far away from London as possible, and by using a pseudonym wherever I can, I hope to protect you from the embarrassment that you dread.
I hope you will have time to write to me soon and let me know that you are reconciled with my decision. Please convey my best wishes to my brothers and sister.
Your loving daughter,
Aleen
Weeks became months, but I received no word from my family as I adjusted to life in Scotland. There was a great deal of adapting to do. A new city to navigate with no old friends to lean on. A small, student existence to endure. Interesting but sometimes difficult things to learn. Mrs. Logan was an easygoing landlady, but because I could afford just one hot meal a day, I only saw her briefly in the evenings when we ate together before I headed back upstairs to study. With no fire, my room was bitterly cold, and often, when I finished working and wanted to sleep, I went out into a quiet backstreet and ran back and forth a few times to warm up before climbing into bed.
My studying paid off and my results were good, but I was lonely. For the first time in my life, I was without a dog for company. Dorothy wrote telling me that Nugget and Honey had settled well at Fallodon.
“They are energetic ramblers for such little dogs and have learned to lie still while Edward and I are birding,” she wrote.
I glanced around my room. I pined for the dogs but realized how fortunate it was that they did not have to live in my tiny room in Edinburgh.
On the weekends in particular, I missed spending time with the horses and being able to gallop across the countryside. I tried to fill my yearning by greeting the animals I saw on the streets, ignoring the curious glances of their people. My attempts to befriend a feral cat who lived nearby extended no further than getting her to take a piece of chicken from my hand. I could not afford to share much more of my food, so we remained distant acquaintances.
My days were varied and busy, and my thoughts dominated by my studies. Even so, I woke every morning hoping that it would be the day I would hear from my mother. It would be comforting to know that she sometimes thought about me. Occasionally, before I fell asleep, I fantasized that she and my siblings missed me. However, with no letter appearing, I had begun to believe mine had not reached my mother in London, when I found an envelope addressed in Charles’s hand on my desk one afternoon. I tore it open. Had something happened to my mother that he had written and not her?
Dear Aleen,
Mother received your letter while I was at sea, but I cannot say that her distress had eased when she showed it to me on my return months later. That should come as no surprise to you. The tone of your letter shows that you anticipated her anguish, as does the fact that you did not have the decency to let us know your plans before you left for Edinburgh. Yet, knowing the anguish you would cause, you went ahead anyway.
What is also deeply upsetting is that you would take advantage of Major Widdrington’s kind patronage to support your endeavors to be educated. I have written to him to apologize on your behalf.
We have not mentioned your selfish undertaking to anyone outside the family but are concerned that news will reach ears that matter in due course. Mother is deeply concerned about what Her Majesty might think should she come to hear of it. If you are unaware or have conveniently forgotten her stance regarding the enfranchisement of women, Her Majesty has made clear her opinion and it bears repeating here. Mother noted it, word for word, from Her Majesty’s papers as follows: “Were women to ‘unsex’ themselves by claiming equality with men, they would become the most hateful, heathen and disgusting of beings and would surely perish without male protection.”
Your letter implies that we should be grateful that you have taken to educate yourself in Edinburgh rather than in London as if Scotland is in another world. Similarly, you suggest that we take comfort that you are using pseudonyms as if your duplicity will not add to our disgrace when your undertakings become public. We are not comforted in any way.
It falls to me, your oldest brother and protector of our mother, to insist that you immediately give up this foolishness and return to London before we suffer further shame. It would be a pity to have to cut off our association, but if that is what is required to defend the Cust name and the honor of our mother in court, it may become the only option if you are unwilling to be sensible and return to London.
Yours sincerely,
Charles
I read the letter three times. With every reading, I hoped it would reveal a part of my oldest brother that I had dreamed would emerge with time. I wanted to see in Charles someone who was principled but fair, who recognized my ambitions as he did his own and was proud that I wanted to do something useful with my life. There was, however, no sign of that version of him. The only Charles I saw was the deeply loyal son, naval officer, and Third Baronet Cust of Leasowe Castle. The letter writer was not a brother in the sense that Orlando had been but a man who placed queen, country, and title above sister. A brother who wrote of family as if I were an outsider. If there had been a fireplace in my bedroom, I would have thrown the letter into the flames and tried to forget I had ever read it, but there was no fire—and anyway, Charles’s words were imprinted in my heart.
Chapter 11
1896
Edinburgh, Scotland
Although Sophia Jex-Blake and the six other female medical students—who, when they arrived to sit their exams, were pelted with mud and insults by pugnacious male students during the Surgeons’ Hall Riots of 1870—had, if not paved, at least cleared the way for women to study at the University of Edinburgh, my gender was still a novelty on campus by 1896. It did not help that, despite the institution’s professing to welcome us, the attitude of the staff seemed to indicate the opposite. We were barely tolerated, and although I set my sights firmly on receiving an education and turned a blind eye to all else, moving around campus was not always easy.
